


Urban Night (Reject Trash)

by emphatichearts



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, F/M, some trash, urban night cityscape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-03
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-09-21 19:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9562394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emphatichearts/pseuds/emphatichearts
Summary: I have this other fic and I write chapters for it that sometimes don't make the cut bc continuity so I leave them here bc I am an egotistical fuck and think everything i write should definitely be read.also i love you miss saffron





	1. 'Please Turn Back' (Foreshadowing~~~~)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [La_Saffron](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Saffron/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: about 1 gore and 1 cheating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pressed play on the 'Dozing off ...' playlist by Axian and immediately thought to write something sad.  
> [haven't read this over] [haven't edited] [haven't wanted to ahaha send help] [then send it back before it arrives]

“I’m so sorry, Jumin…” Your eyes aren’t clear and your throat feels closed and your chest hurts a lot. Your hands are faltering and you’re scared to be near him. You’re scared that he’ll back away from you and never come back. A mess at his feet, you feel the most comfortable. A mess at his feet, you feel most right. You want to look up at him, but that’s not a choice for you to make. Your eyes belong at his knees, and either way, they’re covered in tears that just seem to keep coming without fail.

He doesn’t answer.

You’re so scared. What if you never hear his voice again? _His voice…_ Could you even remember it anymore? Your synapses grasp for all the memories, of moments ago, with his terrible words – “How much did you do? Did you love them, too?” How had he sounded? _He’d sounded dead. Disappointed._ You don’t want to remember that, you want to remember…you want to remember _him._ The one you loved and love, _Jumin. Jumin Han._

He never used to like you at his feet. He was always so determined to keep you as his equal, even when he got dirty and dominant, you’d never feel below him. He’d never humiliate you unless to empower you somehow…he always did somehow. Not for a second did he let you mistreat yourself or even come close to being looked at funny by someone else, let alone do a single thing against you throughout your entire relationship, and. And here you are. You’ve done all the worst. You _are_ the worst. And he won’t love you anymore, forevermore.

It’s quiet, and you dare to lift your head to look at him. He’s…expressionless. He looks at you, as if surveying a clay sculpture, trying to decipher what on earth the sculptor had in mind when shaping this pitiful piece of art. He looks curious. Except he knows, he knows everything…then why does he look so curious? Is there something he doesn’t yet know? It’s obvious, isn’t it? You cheated on him. You let them touch you – no, you _made_ them touch you, begged them, because you were lonely, and terrified of it. Because you missed him, because you thought he wouldn’t be there, and so you did the very worst thing you could ever do to achieve the very worst thing you could ever imagine. _Losing him._

The tears you shed fall so quickly to your chest that your collar is now damp, as if rain had poured upon your shirt. You want to reach for him, but…it’s useless either way. You’d surely dirty him. You don’t want that. Or maybe you just don’t want him to feel how dirty _you_ are. A rushing, aching in your heart makes you shiver, and your mind swells up and dizzies you in thoughts of how good it would feel if he killed you right now.

Wouldn’t it feel good? Wouldn’t it feel _righteous?_ If he would just grab your hair and slice your neck, even just choke it until you lost your breath. If you would die by his hands, you would want it to be as unceremonious and dull as possible, because you wouldn’t want the gift of anything special. You’d want him to do it as if you didn’t matter to him. As if you never did. You want him to grimace as you stopped breathing, as if your death had slightly inconvenienced him that day. You’d want him to not give a damn about your existence, because at least then your death will be justified. For what life is there worth living if you couldn’t even be good to him, if you couldn’t even salvage his love for you?

“MC,” he finally says, and your heart falls apart. Your throat is completely paralysed now, and you answer with a pathetic parting of your lips, and a croaked gasp.

“MC,” he says, again. “Please press restart.” His eyes…were they blurry just now or is it just your own eyes playing tricks on you? His expression – it looks like worry, but not quite, something else. You shake your head; _I don’t understand._

 _“Please,”_ he falls to your side, kneeling before you, and now you’re scared of him because of the way he’s closer to you, no longer standing over you and protected from your filth. You shake your head again, slowly this time. You don’t know what he means, but a restart right now seems like an impossible dream. How could the two of you just pretend nothing had happened and just restart it all?

His hand takes your cheek, his fingers separated from your skin by your hair, and he bumps his forehead against yours. There are two sets of tears falling into your lap now. You’re so scared. You’re terrified. You want to touch him, but you also just want him to touch you.

“J-J…” Your throat hurts, as if you’d never tasted water before in your life.

“MC, _please._ I know you can restart this…just press the button…press the button and we can start again. That’s how it works, isn't it? You restart and…” He takes your hand with his other hand, interlacing his fingers with yours so delicately it hurts. “…and we could forget, right? And we can start again…love again… Can we, please? Can we please restart, MC? Can I love you again? Can you love me a second time?”

You drop your shoulders, and you drop your head to his chest. His arms wrap around you, too warm for any of this to be fair on him. Your hands are too weak to grasp at him, so you find release in your heavy sobs that strain your chest and your lungs.

“Please…”

You shake your head, not knowing.

_“Please…”_

But you don't…

_“MC, please…”_

_You don't…_

_“Please restart, because I love you more than anything in any world.”_

_"But Jumin, I don't know how."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Hoped you enjoyed, ya? Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> I wanna write more here so pls comment with any random sad prompts. Thank you so so much for reading!! <3 <3  
>  
> 
> Also also, Miss Saffron, this is one is my love letter to you! In the uh least creepiest/most platonic but still somehow borderline genuine way possible. Um... *sticks carnation stem between teeth* god bleff! appy rate birfday!
> 
> [rachel rachel u know i love u mostestst as always <3]


	2. Memory (Chapter 27 Reject)

“MC…I’m so sorry I–”

There are tears welling in his eyes, his bright yellow eyes. You instinctively move to the window and kneel in front of him, putting your hands on his cheeks to wipe away the little drops of guilt from beneath his glasses.

“Shut up.” You say. You pull his face to your chest, holding him, warmly, in a way as if sheltering him from any pain and light coming through from the full-length glass window behind him. You really hate that glass window now, and it shreds your heart thinking of why. But there are other reasons to cry at the moment. There’s Saeyoung.

You press your lips to his forehead before pushing him back to look at him. There’s something mesmerising about Saeyoung’s face when he’s sad. Even as your platonic duties call for you to put a stop to his current misery, there’s something special about seeing him so defenceless and needy, because it’s just so rare seeing Saeyoung being this honest. But, your platonic duties come first.

“D’you want something warm to drink?” You say, standing and pulling him up with you. Saeyoung nods, the weak smile accompanying his gesture uncomfortable. You table his discomfort for the moment as you head off to the kitchen with him following.

“I don’t really feel like tea right now, so I’ll heat up some milk and you can have some hot chocolate.” You’re not really paying attention to the words that you’re saying; you focus primarily on getting out the small saucepan and the milk, keeping your back turned to Saeyoung, who is now settled in a chair by the counter. You flick the stove on and stare at the milk in the saucepan, back still turned.

“MC,”

You stop and close your eyes.

He begins, his voice strained: “MC, when the security cameras glitched… It was him hacking into them so he could get in here without Jumin or me knowing about it.”

 _Argh_. You bite your lip; he never really did realise how the way he mentioned some names sometimes made you wince. Even deictically, the reference to the owner of those vivid mint and honey eyes sparks the memory of the person in your head, the faint images of him swimming in your brain like devilish koi fish trying to eat away at your mentality.

Maybe if you told him to stop, they would? _No, they wouldn’t._ Saeyoung continues:

“But Jumin thought ahead and installed cameras that weren’t connected to anything a hacker could get their hands on. I noticed a few of them the first time I ever came here. I didn’t think much of them then, but, after the incident with the glitch, I…”

What?

“MC. I came here first thing in the morning. You weren’t home, so I found each of the cameras and extracted the footage from them myself. I looked at it all just before you got here. MC. I saw everything.”

A shot of ice sears through your bones and skin like fire. You hadn’t noticed before, but your hands have been gripping the side of the stovetop and your fingers are now pressed hard against the ceran glass. Remember when being reminded of forgotten memories had felt so good and nostalgic? Now your brain is begging you to stop thinking, to stop uncontrollably digging into corners you never wanted to re-explore.

“Saeran, stop. I –” Fuck. Saeyoung doesn’t stop:

“MC. I. What did Saeran – do to you? The cameras, they, they were only set up out here and the living room. There were none in the bedroom, MC. He took you to the bedroom. He was in there with you for two hours, MC. What did he do? Tell me. Please. _What did my brother do?_ ”

You turn around abruptly, your fingers still gripping the edge of the ceran glass. You stare at the tiles on the floor and your mouth opens, but you don’t say anything. You wish you could say enough to end the conversation.

 _‘You don’t want to know. I don’t want to know. Don’t ask me to tell you.’_  You turn your head upwards to look at him, your voice almost ready, but – ah.

There’s something really mesmerising about Saeyoung’s face when he’s so sad and pained. You take a breath:

“Saeyoung, he was just…trying to find some classified files that. Jumin had brought from work. From work a few weeks ago.”

“M…”

“He had...said, Saeran had...said, he said needed them for, um, s-something. He didn’t find them – I think...and he left right away.”

“He drugged you…”

“That – He...he drugged...because I… I realised who he was and he didn’t want me messing with what he was doing. He – he left me in bed, though, when I knocked out. I wasn’t conscious so he left me alone. I heard him when he left – I was still awake. He just...said something about a waste of time...and gone. He left, and everything was normal and fine. I promise. He just came and drugged me and left me to sleep. And he left. He didn’t...didn’t do anything. Nothing at all. He didn’t touch me. He didn’t. He didn’t...touch...me. I promise, I promise I was safe and alright.”

You exhale, your arms and legs and throat shaking. Saeyoung’s mouth opens and closes. He looks relieved. He’s glad. He smiles, and this time it’s such a relieved one, which you mirror wholeheartedly the moment you realise he believes you. He puts his face in his hands. “I...I’m glad,” he says, beaming.

The sound of bubbling comes up from behind you, and you turn to attend to the milk positively boiling in the saucepan. “I’m so sorry it worried you so much,” you say earnestly, turning the fire off and taking out two mugs. “No, I’m sorry, I just…there were some bugs he left in the room that I got rid of before, I should have guessed it was just that. I just assumed the worst and ending up worrying myself…I was so scared…especially since…” You hear him ruffle his hair. “I’m sorry, MC. I worry too much.”

You mix the milk and the cocoa and turn.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uh. ceran puns haha heyyyyy


	3. Night Call [Chapter 32 Reject]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted it as the official chapter, but I've since written a different version of it, so I deleted this original from Urban Night. I just realised that I've lost all the comments there, too, but. Uh. Oops? Anyway, I wasn't happy with this at all, but here it is in case I'll need it later?

_‘I won't. So let go.’_

You pinch the words between the forefinger and thumb of your thoughts, tugging at it, stretching at it and taking it apart; half-hoping, half-expecting that by some impossible miracle the words would spontaneously transform into something else. Somewords else.

How pathetic you must have sounded in that moment, asking him such a stupid question when the answer should have been so obvious to you; to silly, stupid you. Of course he won't be coming home tonight. Of course.

But what else was there to say? What else could you have possibly said or expressed to him in that moment seemingly designated solely to that terrible numbing silence? _‘I'm sorry’_? _‘Don’t leave me’_? _’Have you been cheating on me with Rena Jun from sixty-seventh floor’_? _‘Was work tiring’? ‘I’ll get the water running, and while we wait, let’s share a glass of wine and talk about the book you gave me yesterday; I've just finished it,’_

“- and I can see why you liked it so much”

“Eh? M...MC? What do you mean ‘I liked something so much’?” says Jaehee from the tiny phone speaker, still sounding as concerned as she was about two hours ago when you started the Swype video call, but now with some confusion added to the mix.

You choose to remain quiet for a little bit, your hands idly wavering over the carpet of the living room, where you’ve been lying, somewhat dead, somewhat pathetic, for the past few hours (except for when you half-sat up to lug your incessantly ringing phone off the couch - spoiler alert, it was Jaehee calling - plus that one bathroom break you took forty minutes ago). You turn your head, your cheek rubbing against the nylon, wishing it wasn’t so soft and warm; it just _has_ to  make you think of him again, how everything in this apartment existed by his word, like a paradise just for him, just for you. And now? And _now…_

“Paradise Lost.”

“M...MC,” Jaehee whispers, probably concerned that you’ve absolutely lost it now. She probably wouldn’t be wrong. Now you’re making references to old books with irrelevant plotlines that don’t and shouldn’t matter anymore. You’re supposed to put books down once you’ve finished reading them, right? Ah...but you never really put your mind down with it, do you? Maybe it’s just nice to humour yourself with false pretense of meaning. Because wouldn’t it be nice if your life was like a book? Or a song? Or a _game?_

Wouldn’t it just be nice if any of your pain _means anything?_

Hell, even being an instrument of someone’s entertainment would be a better explanation for all of your failures than just the fact that it was your fault - your loneliness, your wants, your desires...your hunger for red apples because God told you no.

“Jaehee, I’m losing it. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to do.”

She’s quiet for a moment.

“It’s okay,” she says, ever so soft and considerate. “I know.”

“It’s complicated, and you’ve done some wrong things, but even if it’s hard, you should never give up if you really love someone. A lot of things are scary in theory, and terrifying in practice - but the results always come through. I...I might sound too much like my job right now, but I think that love isn’t too different from business, even though it’s also completely different. Oh - I just contradicted myself, sorry.”

You roll over on your stomach, pulling your chin up onto your hands to look at your phone screen, precariously propped up by some things you’d found within two metres of you. The little image of Jaehee had taken off her glasses, as per your request at the start of the call, with the claim that ‘Glasses Jaehee’ was for work, and that you liked Football Jersey Jaehee much better. She’s happier, and more relaxed. And somehow you can manage to be there for one another all the time like this, like right now, when you’ve had your full confession at the Church of Jaehee, and she’d tried to talk you through it, also talking about Rena (just about her job, the fact that she’s genuinely kind, and that she seems to have known Jumin since before she became his assistant).

Jaehee looks a bit troubled now, like she often is whenever she tries to talk about matters of the non-business-y kind. Sometimes she’d even stutter, and you’d feel the world lift off your shoulders. You’d be lying if you ever said you didn’t love her. You habitually think of Jumin’s treatment towards her at this thought, and find a conditioned pout upon your lips. But you know that he thinks it about her too, just like everyone who knows her well; _Thank God for Jaehee. I love her._

You blink now, urging her to continue. _Go on!_

“Ah...eh...well, I don’t have a lot of experience with these matters, b-but, it’s just that...when it comes to risk versus reward, people do say that love is a reward of unfathomable value, so, if we take it that way...the risk we should be willing to take should be great, too. It’s...MC. You’re sad right now, aren’t you?” (Nod.) “But you were happy when you were with him, right?” (Nod.) “Really, really happy?” (Nod, nod.) “Well then, you should _do_ something about it, MC. You need to do something. At least talk to him. Nothing is ever solved by setting it aside.”

“Except cooking ramen,” you quickly add.

...

“Except cooking ramen,” she accepts.

“Have you eaten, Jaehee?” She hasn’t been eating well lately.

“Don’t worry about me.” She’s selfless. “I’m worried for Mr Han, too…” She sighs. “He’s not ramen, to say the least. He’s a thousand-step mechanical puzzle, but I know you’re good at those.” She smiles at you, knowing.

“Ah...a  little…” you say, thinking about it. She nods encouragingly.

“Talk to him, MC. You know him best. Do what you feel is right.”

“I...I’ll...try…”

“I know you can." You both pause for a moment, smiling at your screens. Then she blinks and the gentle concern is back in her eyes. "Oh - you haven't been well lately, MC. You'd better get some sleep now. I'm counting on it. Don't worry yourself too much for tonight. We can talk about it tomorrow, too. You need a good night's sleep. You can handle things tomorrow, and I'll be there to help you each step of the way. I'll be there."

_'I'll be there.'_

And that's exactly the thing about Jaehee. She doesn't have to be the best at something to be perfect at it. You've contradicted yourself, but Jaehee's worth that contradiction. _Thank God for Jaehee, right?_ Haven't you been so caught up in mistakes of lustful and desirous affections these past few days that you've forgotten the kind of affection you've always needed most from everyone? There are things your heart can't run from, sure - there's the love that fills you up and makes you feel complete and loved for a moment's breath; a beautiful moment's breath. But then there's that other kind of love, the one that makes you feel comfortable and easy. You think you and Jaehee have that. She gets it. And it feels really nice.

You reach for your phone.

“I love you, Jaehee,” you say to her, and mean it.

She smiles.

“I wish I knew. And get some sleep.”

You smile, too.

“I know you do. Goodnight.”

_Clack._

 


	4. Chapter 36 Reject

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> alternative

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought i should uploading my failed attempts for kicks

“The first thing I want you to know, is that Jumin really really loves you, MC,” says Zen.

He’s picked up his chopsticks but he hasn’t eaten anything just yet. You’ve already started on the kimchi (it’s store bought, and you’re a bit glad), but you stop nibbling on the lettuce at the declarative, suddenly focused and attentive. It’s not something you expected to hear first thing in the morning from Zen Hyun Ryuu of all people.

“Zen…but…he…” You pause, lowering your instruments, “…knows…about everything…I would have told him even if he didn’t… And I know he won’t forgive me. I wouldn’t either.” You want to look away, to hide your face from the shame you remember, but Zen’s eyes keep you with him. He puts down his own chopsticks and cradles his chin in his hands. “MC,” he says, and a smile confuses you, seeming so inappropriate, genuine but making you suddenly feel confused and unsure. “He knew.”

You still don’t understand what Zen had meant by that when the taxi driver stops softly in front of C&R.

You walk in with the regular greetings: hello-how-are-you-Mrs-Han-I’m-good-thank-you and are-you-looking-for-Mr-Han-shall-I-call-him-oh-no-that’s-alright-thank-you. Straight over to the elevator, no time for more words. Up. Seventy-seven. Down the hall, past the waiting room, and down, down towards the ever-looming double-doors.

If nerves are one thing, this is a whole nother feeling altogether, staring at the cold metal handle, sparkling of course, waiting to see whether or not you’d really dare lay a hand on it, let alone turn. Of course you’re thinking of the worst. What if you open the door and he’s nestled in Rena Jun’s arms? Her perfect, beautiful arms, and her perfect, beautiful face and figure and hair and smile and everything. What if you open this door and he doesn’t love you even one bit anymore? What if your heart breaks? Who would you run to, then? It’s so tiring to run…better to be on your own and…stop…relying on people…fuck.

You turn and lean your back against the door, your knuckles brushing over the smoothly cold wooden surface. Wood…that’s the fifth year anniversary gift, isn’t it? You smile, though pitifully, and try to think of what he would like in the fifth year. A wooden pen? No, a table? That’s too much…hm… wooden tea leaf containers? It’d be nice if you could make one by hand…engrave something on it. Jumin was always making stuff for you whenever he could…he realised you liked things like that better than expensive gifts or handsome gestures of money. So it’s decided, then: a pair of tea leaf holders, both of your initials on it. You’ll save up, take a carving class. Run into a forest and steal a tree, take it home. You almost sound out a chuckle at that, and you turn back with a smile, facing the door, and then you realise that fuck, you’re delusional. The tree police would get you first.

You turn the handle and pull the door open (it’s a weird door) with a very momentary, very false sense of confidence, feeling ready for maybe the force of an atomic bomb or something. Perhaps there should be a blinding light streaming through the door round about now. But there’s not much. Just sunlight (it does make you blink a bit at first) – just sunlight and Jumin sitting at his desk. Just Jumin sitting at his desk, with Rena Jun on the other side, stood up, leaning across the table, their faces very close together.

 _It’s not that bad, it’s not that bad,_ you tell yourself. Then again, what would have been _good?_ If he’d suddenly decided to forgive you unconditionally out of nowhere, to love and to hold? Rena Jun’s lips are a brilliant gleam of red, barely three centimetres from the corner of Jumin’s lips, where her gaze are focused, eyelids low. His eyes look sad.

“Jumin,” you say, not angry, not even sad. You feel like you’re in a movie or something. You’d better not fall for the cliché lines. You’d better not start screaming, or worse, _crying_. You clutch the strap of your bag tightly, trying to hold in something you don’t even know of. _“I’m sorry.” “Are you happy?” “Do you still need me?”_

“Ah,” says Rena Jun, and she straightens, brushing invisible dust from her skirt; there’s a blush on her cheeks and a furrow in her brow, like she’s embarrassed. Is that bad? You’re still, because you’re waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t. Maybe she’s waiting, too?

“Miss Cha,” she says, after a bit.

“Re-Rena Jun,” you say, “Jumin.”

“MC.” It’s almost like a comedy. A smile almost passes over your lips, but then you realise that you’re just crying. _The worst…_

“Rena, if you’d please give us a moment…”

“Yes,” she says. She lays her hand over his for a moment before leaving where you came.

 

_**Another one** _

You take a step backwards, towards the door that Rena had left, and he stands with a clatter of his chair and papers. “MC, wait.” His eyes are nearly blue right now. Like sky reflecting against the side of a monotonous office building, or mussel shells on a beach. He’s not emotionless anymore. His eyes say confusion, and a slight hint of panic. It’s strange, because his eyes had been so different when you’d first entered his office, abruptly, without warning. He’d looked…

“Don’t--don’t worry about it. Don’t--don’t say anything. Thank you...for it...vrything…?”

What’s good to say? What’s good to say right now? Of course he’s obligated to worry if you seem out of it. And it’s not like he’s completely robotic -- he loved you once, at least, so he’d still care at least a little bit, of course. But isn’t this good for him? Isn’t this perfectly convenient for him? If you do this, wouldn’t he be able to go on with his story without guilt or shame? You want to start screaming so badly, to pretend that you hate him and ruin everything you’ve been through together in the matter of a few loud, angry minutes. Maybe that would be easier. Maybe that’s what the spoilt antagonistic wife character would do. But that’s not really it, is it? You want whatever he wants. If he wants you to let him off easy, you’ll give it to him. If he wants you to scream, to laugh, to break everything in range, you’d do it. Because right now, standing in the middle of his office like a child waiting alone in a car park after school, like a kid awaiting punishment and wondering when his twin brother would come home to save him, like some idiot feeling scared and confused and altogether pretty shitty about everything, hoping for her husband to take it all away, like some weak pitiable yet unlovable character written by some covertly misogynistic director; you want someone to tell you what you want, because hell if you have any idea of it own your own.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set after Chapter 42 of UNC. I wrote this last night on my phone at 3am and I thought it was so hilarious that I almost posted it on the actual fic but V is so OOC it’s hilarious and also the chapter skewed in an entirely different direction from what I’d initially planned. So I put it here instead aylmaolmao

“MC, do you see yourself as being wrong?”  
It sounds like a really dumb question on the surface, and beneath the surface, it really sounds all the dumber. You wonder if this is one of V’s tactics to lull you into a bout of self-revelation and liberation from social bounds. You brace yourself, though doubtfully.  
“Yes,” you reply.  
V’s hand leaves your cheek as two shallow glasses of cola-brown liquor are slid across the wooden countertop. He doesn’t move to take them, just makes sure they don’t fall.  
“And do you see Jumin as being wrong?”  
Ah, you should have expected this. But, well, _duh_ —  
“He’s only been with one other woman; I’ve done way worse than him. Of course I’m more wrong, V. I wouldn’t claim it to be any other way.”  
V’s countenance starts changes a bit, like un-tensing.  
“But MC, is he _wrong_?”  
Well!  
“Well! — you say it like — like…”  
“He’s been with her more times than you’ve been with the others, hasn’t he? What really constitutes more wrong?”  
You can feel your cheeks start to burn red.  
“At least he didn’t —”  
“MC, I think you are making excuses for him to feel better about yourself.”  
Hah?  
“I — but! —— ... _Ngh_!”  
You scrunch your hands. He picks up a glass, pushes the other your way. You raise, then down.  
“Ah, MC. It appears I’ve taken the rum and coke intended for you,” says V, considering his empty glass.  
On yours, you cough, gagging with fiery pain embellishing in your throat. “Oh _God_ , you think? What is this — jet fuel?”  
“Ah, something like,” he answers. He wipes the dribble from the corner of your mouth.  
“Don’t,” you say, grimacing. “It’s gross.”  
“You or the scotch?”  
You grimace more and wring your lips, now a little extra miserable. “I guess, what isn’t?”  
And he smiles. What a dumb time for him to smile. Maybe he likes your pain? Or maybe he’s just — eh, having fun.  
“M—”  
“Can I have another?”  
.  
“ _Pah_!” It really burns, but you can almost feel your throat being born again from this, skinned afresh from the fires, resurrected with new chords. It feels good, a little fun. You might’ve even heard V chuckle a bit at your last two reactions.  
“This is so goo-waitaminnit what did you mean when you said he’s been with Rena more times than I’ve cheated V you’re not the kind to make straight statements like that unless you know something do you know something V how did you know V what the hap happened — _hUuHhph_ ” (you take a deep breath) “V what when did you what know what now.”  
You pause, then hiccup. Maybe that jet fuel’s got you fuzzy already, but you’re very determined to stare him the hell down, even through those very stylish very hipster sunglasses. V is very still, too, except — wait, you swear to God you can see a little pink coming on his cheeks, and not the intoxicated kind.  
You try to say an expectant Well? and:   
“ _Walerreee_?”  
Perfectly executed.  
“MC, I — _hic_! —” (you credit him for the very adorable hiccup) “I…may have had some suspicions...some time ago…”  
“How long ago!”  
“Just…perhaps a month ago…”  
“And you’re telling me this now?”  
“I…was not sure…and, I…thought that it would be better that…”  
“He _cheated on me for like over a month?!?!?_ That bitch!”  
You slam the counter with very feeble sonal outcome. The bartender quickly slides you another hot one. You down it and slam it on the counter. It clinks.  
“ _Fuck_!”  
“I’m sorry…”  
“ _I still love him_!”  
Another glass.  
“ _Maybe more_!”  
“Ah?”

“Ah, excuse me Sir and Miss…”  
.  
Long story short, you got kicked out of the cafe. Or, more presumptuously, your were “politely asked to leave” for “over-intoxication” and “yelling profanity in a child-infested area”.  
V is stumbling a bit, so you hold his arm as you walk him home, which isn’t very far from here. You make sure to bother him on the way:  
“Dammit V, I thought you were gonna say something deep and meaningful today, but it turns out you’re just an easy drunk that hid stuff from me this whole time in some weird deep thoughtful attempt to protect me or whatever! Why are you so weirdly self-deprecatingly counterproductively kind for? Dude, say something laced with sun metaphors already.”  
You turn to him expectantly and see him bite his lip.  
“...You’re like moon.”  
You scoff. “Oh, am I now?”  
“...You’re very close to the earth compared to the sun. And you don’t burn those that touch you, either.”  
“Hah.”  
“You…let them put flags on you and claim you as their own. Scientific research…”  
His head is obviously buzzed like yours.  
“Uh, your metaphor is dropping a bit there.”  
“Ah…is it?”  
You wipe the dribble from the corner of his mouth.  
“Were you gonna say I’m soft and move waves with a celestial pull like delicate hands barely-touching those birds with broken wings dah-dah-dah-dah black and white Tumblr graphic?” _  
“Don’t you mean ‘Timblr’?” “Oh right, I forgot we were doing that.”_  
“I wasn’t, actually…”  
“Then what was it, hm?”  
“You’re cold and only shine light when you feel like it, you’re often covered by self-induced sadness-fetishising dark clouds either way, your entire attitude and mindset changes throughout the month like you’re an actor for twenty different sitcoms and tragedies, you sometimes act big and strong and independent but mostly you just act small and weak and in need of protection to draw people back to you over and over again, you constantly feel sorry for yourself, you endlessly try to keep yourself self-indulgently vulnerable, you always try to take the blame from others to feel like some sort of saint, you cry when you’re critiqued, you’re a dramatist, and dah-dah-dah-dah-dah, everyone still falls for you anyway because you’re so good at pretending to be some beautiful, artful, adventurously exciting idea in a poor drunk man or woman’s head.” End quote.  
“Ah,”  
You blink as you help him across the road, your head growing ever warmer.  
“I…I think you’re right on.”  
“I know because I’m somewhat the same.”  
“Ah,”  
“But,” he adds to it, staggering a bit on a bump. “I think you’re still good.” He leans on you a bit more for support. “Do you know why?”  
He stops, and you find that you are in front of his house. He turns to face you properly, places his hand on your cheek one more time to swipe the thumb under your eye, then touches the corner of your mouth and swoops down, towards you, to kiss it.  
You don’t move at all. You let his lips stay on yours for some moments longer, until he stops, straightens, then pets your hair with a smile.  
“ _That’s_ why you’re good.”  
“Eh? You mean not drunk-kissing you back? It’s just ‘cause I’m drunk.”  
“You’re not drunk, MC. The bartender was just sliding you hot water after your first glass. And I’m not drunk either.”  
“But — you were staggering…”  
“I’m blind, not drunk, woman.”  
“Oh. _Oh_ , right. You can’t see.”  
He chuckles. Well, at least he’s having fun.  
“I see enough. That’s what makes me wealthy.”  
“What an odd thing to say.”  
“I’m going inside. Would you like anything to drink?”  
“You’re funny.”  
He smiles again, then turns to leave, stops, turns back.  
“I learned something today. I’ll talk to Jumin in an hour.”  
Hour? Oh. Right. It’s still only 4pm. What joy of a day it’s been. Huh. It _has_ been a joy.  
He turns again.  
“Hey, wait!”  
“You’re really disorienting my blindness right now.”  
“A hug,” you say, and hug him. You place a quick kiss on the corner of his mouth.  
“Thank you.” He pets your hair, then turns one last time to leave, gone a bit.

 

 


End file.
